


I Am Terrified

by lezzerlee



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alcohol, Community: ae_match, Developing Relationship, Emotional Baggage, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-09
Updated: 2011-08-09
Packaged: 2017-10-22 10:22:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/237066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lezzerlee/pseuds/lezzerlee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eames drinks to escape his problems.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Am Terrified

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd by the lovely [phenylic](http://phenylic.livejournal.com)

Eames sits in the bar alone, fingers toying with the half-empty tumbler of whiskey — his fifth of the night. The ice is melting in this one too quickly, and the watered down amber stings less than it should when he pulls a sip from the edge. It’s not quality at all, he doesn’t want this to taste good, doesn't want to enjoy it. He’s not here for pleasure; he’s here to forget.

Forgetting is difficult though when only five drinks in to what should be eight. He’s hit that point where his thoughts aren’t yet blurring out, but are instead focused, acute in his mind; the grim purse of Arthur’s lips, the wounded look in his brown eyes as he turned to leave. Eames knocks back the rest of the drink in one swallow and taps the bar lightly with his middle and ring finger, trusting the bartender has seen the gesture, as he has for the last three drinks. His watch — a gift — gleams, reflecting what little lighting there is in the quiet lounge. Pulling at the closure, he opens it more deftly than he should be able to and pockets it. His drink is set in front of him without a word.    
  
It’s not as if Eames doesn’t know what he’s doing here. On the contrary, he’s perfectly aware. He’s running. He’s terrified. Months of happiness, of stolen smiles, of bedhead, surreptitious kisses, of morning breath, and broken moans of pleasure and he’s running. He’s running because he can’t handle the way Arthur looks when he stands at the sink in the bathroom, half hidden by the door, shaving the strong line of his jaw. He can’t handle the way Arthur mumbles nonsense into his neck when the alarm goes off and they haven’t yet fully risen from sleep. He can’t handle the way Arthur moans his name or the way Arthur’s cheeks dimple when he smiles. He can’t handle the way Arthur looks at him, looks at him like he’s real, like he thinks Eames is worth something, like he’s happy.

Eames is leaving because he can’t do this; he doesn’t know how. Nothing in his life has been stable, secure. Nothing he’s ever done has earned him the trust of another person. Nothing anyone else has done has earned his. Until now. But he doesn’t know what to do with that, because all of his instincts are telling him to get out before it’s too late. All of his warning bells are ringing.

The sixth drink is gone before he knows it, and finally, the edges are getting fuzzy. Finally, the numbness is setting in, and maybe, just maybe, he’ll forget for long enough to to get away before he changes his mind. After the seventh drink is consumed, burning far less now that everything is dampened by the glow of intoxication, someone sits next to him in the bar, too close to be innocent with how empty the place is.

He doesn’t look up to see who’s joined him, not right away, until he smells it, the distinct spice of Arthur’s cologne. When he lifts his head, vision starting to spin, he sees Arthur staring forward, arms resting on the edge of the table, posture rigid, and the corners of his mouth turned down into a contemplative frown. Eames reaches for the rest of his drink, and Arthur turns lightly to watch his hand wrap around the glass.

Before Eames can bring the drink to his mouth, Arthur grabs his wrist, circling the bare skin with a light touch. The weight of the watch in Eames’ pocket comes to his mind and the dejected look on Arthur’s face makes something uncomfortable catch in Eames’ throat. Arthur releases his wrist. He sighs then turns to face Eames directly. Eames can’t meet his eye, just stares at the gold clip on Arthur’s tie — another gift — and waits.

“Let’s get you home, Mr. Eames,” Arthur whispers, as he delicately extracts the tumbler from Eames’ fingers, setting it lightly on the bar. He doesn’t say more, just allows Eames to unsteadily stand and gather his jacket from the back of the stool. 

They’ll have to talk about this in the morning. And that terrifies Eames even more.


End file.
